Photograph by my darling pal Lee Sandwith.

From The Age, ‘They lived the dream….then tried to destroy it’.:

From Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s Twitter account:

You’re better than this, The Age.

Or at least, you used to be.

In the wake of Wednesday’s historical decision to legalise same-sex marriage in New Zealand there has been much jubilation and dancing in the streets and sharing of videos (including Maurice Williamson’s brilliant ‘Rainbows across my electorate’ speech).

It was a timely decision, and a moving occasion, and it felt unifying, and it felt right.

Since then the focus has inevitably turned, of course, to Australia’s current leaders and their thoughts on said historical decision.

Prime Minister Julia Gillard made her thoughts unequivocally clear:

‘Asked by a member of the public at a community cabinet in Melbourne on Wednesday night why Australia lagged behind New Zealand in legalising gay marriage, Ms Gillard said she would not be changing her mind on the issue.

‘'I doubt we’re going to end up agreeing,’‘ Ms Gillard said.’

Tony Abbott, naturally, was true to form, spinning out his broken record bleat that the vote was ‘'decisively rejected’‘ in 2012, repeat chorus, fade.

And it’s more than a shame. Because Julia Gillard was presented with the perfect opportunity to set herself apart from the rest of the pack – to set herself apart, indeed, from the relentless shadow of Kevin Rudd, a social conservative himself – and to state that yes, as an unmarried atheist she too could see that there was no longer such thing as ‘traditional’ partnership, and that speaking as the country’s first female Prime Minister with the first openly lesbian member of an Australian cabinet she could recognise that it was time to set the standard and take us into an inevitable future.

But she didn’t, and it’s too late now, and if she even dared attempt to change her mind 149 days out from the election she would be once again pounced on as a ditherer, a fibber, a leader who no longer understands their core beliefs, if of course they possessed them in the first place.

So this is how it will be.

Tony Abbott will be Prime Minster on September 14th (and it pains me to write it, it does, more than you could possibly know).

He will be in power for some time before his execrable personality finally wears his colleagues down, or Julie Bishop’s long-standing policy of standing nearby smiling with demonic ferocity eventually compels him to jump off a bridge. Two, three years. At least.

And in that time – in the latter part of that time – he will ‘graciously’ allow a conscience vote on same-sex marriage, and allow his colleagues to do the hard work, and it will pass.

Because it will be long overdue and the public will be so ready and ripe it would seem ridiculous to let it hover in limbo a moment longer. Because he has spent years ‘softening’ his stance on gay partnerships, through his media-savvy daughters, through his ‘supportive’ gay sister. Because it’s just going to happen, no matter who or what is in power, and Tony Abbott will simply be in the right place at the right time.

And he will be hailed as a hero, and Malcolm Turnbull will gnash his teeth over the unfairness of it all (if only they hadn’t forced him at gunpoint to defend that idiotic NBN, the unfairness of it!), and middle Australia will say they always saw it coming and wasn’t it a great pity that Julia Gillard – who had at one time seemed the obvious choice, the breath of fresh air, the one with an opportunity to make a clean break – hadn’t done it first.

But she didn’t. And it’s over for now, at least for her.

And while it will of course be a watershed moment, to celebrate what was always going to happen, whenever it occurs, however it occurs…isn’t it a pity that it couldn’t have been sooner?

And this is how it will be and it is devastating.

Because this is what I do in my spare time.

Roasted brussels sprouts with caramelised walnuts.

Cauliflower and Mushroom risotto with broccoli slaw

Stuffed butternut pumpkin

Roast vegetables with mushroom gravy

Nasu dengaku

Baked sweet potatoes with fresh figs

Beetroot and orange salad

Mango Salsa

Carrot salad with maple lime dressing

Pear crumble

Look, I don’t normally bother publishing articles by Andrew Bolt because to my mind he is simply a strange and very funny man who debates like a jowl-wobbling year nine house captain (‘I think you’ll find the dictionary definition of racism is’ etc) and besides which life is infinitely nicer when you carry on with your days pretending he doesn’t exist and is a fictional character of fun in a flesh-coloured onesie like Mr. Blobby.

Today’s little side-column, though, is so unbelievably and brilliantly batshit crazy I must share it with you lest I spend the rest of the day alone re-reading it and then looking up in wonderment saying: ‘No really, what the actual ACTUAL actual of fuckingly fuckests?’ and then calling up the Herald Sun emergency hotline (I am assuming they have one of these. Either that or a big red phone under a cake dish like Commissioner Gordon used in Batman) and screaming FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEBODY ASSIST UNCLE ANDREW CAN’T YOU SEE THIS IS A CRY FOR HELP until they blackban me from the building again.

I am pretty sure you will get just as much enjoyment out of reading it as I did, and also when you are finished I would like you to perhaps clarify a few points that I am yet to figure out as I am quite stupid.

1. What the fuck – no really – is he on about?

2. Is this a pro-gay article wrapped up in a slightly homophobic and deliciously warm blanket?

3. ‘He commands men and is cool and brave. Like a few gay men I know.’ SEXY AMIRITE

4. Does this article end with an inherent approval of a transgender love affair and a general plea for all of us to get along and ‘find happiness’ and if so IS THIS THE COMING OF THE oh shit here come the four horsemen

5. Anyone able to properly explain what the final line means will win a little trophy and fruit basket. I have been studying it for the last four hours and I am still completely bewildered.

Your turn, have fun!

PROGRESS IS MADE, BOND BY BOND.

By Andrew S. Bolt, Esq (age 53 and two months)

‘JAMES Bond and Labor senator Louise Pratt tell us something has changed, and for the better.

In Skyfall, his latest outing, Bond faces a new villain, Silva, played by the great Javier Bardem.

Silva is gay, and gives the bound Bond’s leg a teasing stroke, but otherwise plays to no gay stereotype, unless you think his obsession with killing the female secret service head who betrayed him is some mummy fixation.

He’s tough, resourceful and radiates presence.

He commands men and is cool and brave. Like a few gay men I know.

Contrast that with the gay couple Bond fought three decades ago in Diamonds are Forever.

Bond could smell them coming from their cheap scent. One simpered, and Bond disposed of him by ramming a bomb between his legs. “Ooh!” squealed the villain – his last gasp of pleasure before the big bang.

So we’ve made some progress, and Senator Pratt last weekend confirmed how much in a newspaper profile.

The 40-year-old spoke of life with her transgender partner, 29-year-old Aram Hosie, who earlier in their relationship was a woman.

To Pratt it’s a so-what: “We are just two people who happen to be in love.”

That such a relationship can be had today by a politician without killing her career is heartening. That she dares speak of it publicly, more so.

Life is hard enough. Happiness is its reward, and too often elusive. That two people can find that happiness in each other’s company is a blessing and its highest justification.

Sneering at how they may find it – and with whom – too often sounds like the jeering of the unhappy, demanding that others be as miserable as themselves.

Sounds like Bond, after 30 years, may now have found some love himself.'

Julie Bishop: ‘[Prime Minister Gillard] created the stolen vehicle that the bank robbers took to the bank to rob the bank.’

Janet Albrechtsen: The problem is pretty clear. And let me try to put it in user-friendly terms here tonight. Let’s say that I’m a partner at a law firm, and that law firm has as its big client the ABC. Now let’s say Tony Jones works for the ABC and he happens to be my boyfriend.

Tony Jones: For argument’s sake.

JA: Stay with me. Tony wants to set up a slush fund to gather funds for the re-election of him as staff-elected director onto the ABC. Now, what do I do as his girlfriend? I can do two things. I can say, look, there’s a bit of a conflict here and I should probably hand it over to someone else at the law firm. I don’t do that. In fact I give the legal advice not only to establish a trust fund for Tony my boyfriend but also –

TJ: Janet, my mind is spinning.

JA: – to set up a fund –

TJ: I am Bruce Wilson in this equation…

JA: It improves. There’s a happy ending, so let me come to the happy ending. The fund is called the ABC workplace reform association. Now, um, as a lawyer I’m very familiar with ABC rules, I know you can’t sent up an association using the letters ABC without authorisation. It was not authorised. What do i do next? I decide not to open a file. I’m a lawyer, I’ve got fiduciary duties to my partners at a law firm. I choose not to tell my partners about this matter. I’m a lawyer, I’ve got fiduciary duties to my client the ABC, but I choose not to tell other members of the ABC that I’m doing work on the side for my boyfriend to set up a fund using the letters ABC for purposes that have nothing to do with workplace reform.

Audience: (Bewildered silence).

Cheers for clearing that up, ladies.

13/05/2009

TRACY GRIMSHAW: She was 19 years old, she was naked, she was outnumbered. There was a very clear power imbalance in that room wasn’t there?

MATTHEW JOHNS: Tracy, I was unaware that she was 19 at the time, but again, she gave no indication that she did not want to be there.

27/09/2012

(via the always perfect First Dog On The Moon.)

So when I opened up today’s Fairfax broadsheet and found the weekend liftout solemnly informing me that ‘Lara Bingle Wants To Be Taken Seriously’ my first instinct, obviously, was to do this

Because I am a giant jerk and look, until you’ve whiled away happy hours finding old Good Weekends and sticking your tongue through a torn hole in the front page for comedic effect then we have very little to discuss and good day to you sir.

It’s obscenely easy to hate on Lara Bingle, mostly because she appears to be idiotic to the point of brain damage. For the most part I am unbothered by her except when she appears in my Good Weekend bleating about being ‘taken seriously’ and yearning for ‘credibility’ all the while spouting pithy bon mots such as ‘I lose my words sometimes because I don’t know myself!’ and ‘You don’t often see me eating like that!’. Why, why is it that these women taking precious space in the public eye have so little to fucking offer in the way of national discourse? And why is it that someone of Lara Bingle’s astonishingly gargantuan profile, who purports to influence ‘females under 35’ (‘Our feeling is that there are very few people in this country who have the ability to influence an audience as much as Lara’, self-described ‘brand architect’ Simon Bookallil leers at one stage in the piece), offers absolutely 0.5 slice of fuck-all in the way of engaging, inspiring, provocative, or stimulating acts?

I want women in the public eye to be quick on their toes like Yumi Stynes, to spit passionately with their words like Clem Ford, to uplift through music like Mojo Juju, to stoically square off in the face of naysayers like Kate Ellis, to unite, to stir, to debate.

There were plenty of things that bothered me about Lara’s Good Weekend article, not least imagining poor Jane Cadzow, Walkley-nominated journalist, suffering the ignominy of trailing around behind an aspiring lingerie designer prone to career-defining insights such as ‘I think I did, like, a Campbell’s soup, and, like, a Head & Shoulders’. There was also the skin-crawling awfulness of digging up Professional Creep™ Sam de Brito to rush to defend Lara’s honour like the noble knight he is FOR GOD’S SAKE LARA PLEASE HAVE SEX WITH HIM ALREADY CAN’T YOU SEE HE IS DOING HIS BEST TO GET YOUR ATTENTION LIKE A DESPERATELY LONELY FLAG-WAVING CASANOVA.

The worst bit, however, had nothing to do with Bingle herself and everything to do with the tiresome re-hashing of ‘that’ photograph, taken by professional wankstain Brendan Fevola, allegedly in the dying days of a presumably much-regretted affair between the two, and eventually passed around amongst magazine editors with grubby paws, eager to play a role in the scandal. You’ve all seen it, I’m not going to repost it. In the picture, a showering, naked Bingle looks clearly distressed and is in the midst of telling Fevola to stick his camera phone up his fucking arse (I’m paraphrasing of course, I wasn’t there to enjoy the moment). Why the Good Weekend – or indeed, any media outlet profiling Bingle – have to dig up this incredibly painful, exploitative moment of a nineteen-year-old girl being photographed naked without her consent is beyond my understanding. It happened, it was apparently newsworthy, it can be referenced in a profile piece WITHOUT BEING PRINTED.

The next time Nick Riewoldt is profiled by the Good Weekend do you think they’ll run that idiotic picture of him waving his dick around like a little wand? No, because Riewoldt is more commanding, more untouchable, more powerful, and the media fear his icy wrath more than they do the insipid, tittering Lara Bingle’s.

So you have it correct – I’m pissed off they profiled her in the first place because she is a fucking waste of time and I’m pissed off because the Good Weekend should know better than to rub salt in the wound of a girl who was once put in the vulnerable position of making a very public mistake. I’m like a pissed off tiramisu. Stay out of my way, or if you’re in it, bring ice-cream.

I found this letter at a tram stop maybe ten years ago and rediscovered it in an old diary today (never mind why I was reading an old diary that is patently nothing to do with the story I am about to tell you so hush). I had forgotten how utterly brilliant it was and since I now have THE INTERNET at my fingertips with which to share such missives of joy I would like to transcribe it, word-for-word, discreetly censoring only the name of the author herself and a few other odd bits and pieces.

I love everything about letters. To be honest, I would have picked this one up off the ground and adored it no matter what the content because I am a soul-stealing vulture whimsical writerly type – and because simply gathering insight into a complete stranger via the intimate tone they adopt when putting pen to paper is a thing to be treasured. The thin, spidery handwriting, the worn, creased paper, the frank and fearless revelations. Somebody took time out of their day to write this. Somebody wanted to share these thoughts with another human being.

To me this particular letter is like the most incredible flower. It just keeps opening and opening, and right when you think it has bested itself it reveals further stunning plot twists. It makes you want to know the author intimately, or at the very least buy her a tumbler of whisky and give her a little pat on the shoulder. And the last line utterly destroys me.

I feel so lucky to have found this. Dearest Michael. I’m sorry you never received this letter. But I promise it has found a good home.

‘Dearest Michael,

A few anecdotes re: myself.

My date of birth is 21/01/1946 or 12/12/46. Not known by me which. I could be D—— H——– which is the name given by my mother after my father died.

When I was 12 months old my eldest sister or someone who looked like her put me in hospital with a broken pelvis and broken legs. I was in calipers for eighteen months after that.

My Aunt Anne either took me overseas or to the movies, probably the latter.

When I was about three and a half I went to O—— Grammar pre-school. It was run by two kinky lesbian Oxford Blues and we learnt six languages. I cannot remember any of them.

When I was nine or ten I went to ——– College for two years. I missed out on name day because I fell out of bed and broke my collarbone.

All this time we lived in a humble two bedroom plus sleepout house in Box Hill. My father died of a heart attack at 45 years and we were relatively well off but my mother had to spend the money on us before we were sixteen. When I was twelve I went to ——– High School as the money ran out sooner than expected. It was a bit of a rude shock to me but the academic standards were superior to those I’d had before.

There were three accidents at that school in that year and Anthony Johnstone laid down under a steam-roller.

I passed the test for ——– High School and went there in 1959. It was a long way, as you know, but I did remarkably well and matriculated with a Commonwealth Scholarship. I was to get the disadvantaged students allowance, but unfortunately they did not pay until July, so I could not do Arts/Law as I wished. I had to work and fell downstairs at the State Bank.

I did not perform very well but escaped through with a pass degree in Psychology and English Lit.

In my final year I learnt to drive and fell downstairs during a visit to St. Nicholas Hospital, where I saw Anthony Johnstone. Flat as a tack.

You will have gathered from this saga which is making me tired and bored that I am accident prone.

I have had only three or four boyfriends here in the past fifteen years and after each encounter I have been stung by a bee. I am allergic to bees and this form of God-inflicted aversion therapy has made me allergic to men. I might faint, cough or have an asthma attack. The hospital treatment for bee sting allergy is lengthy and unpleasant. I am allergic to men as individuals and also to menstruating women.

I am not allergic to men and women I see frequently.

Or could they perhaps be carrying something in their pockets?

All my other allergies are too numerous to mention.

Love from

D———.

p.s. I have stopped drinking coffee and cooking oil. My temper has improved because of this.

As you will guess, I have had a lot of pain-killers of the old-fashioned type. Probably that is why I smoke cigarettes, also the absences from home.

I do not suffer much pain now.'